Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  As I gaze at the busy street scene in front of me, trying to find comfort in her philosophy, my body starts shaking uncontrollably, seeing Alec climbing out of his town car in front of the Oldenhouse building…with flowers in hand.

  I’ve been avoiding his calls since the night at Cipriani. He was so far from being the Wall Street gentleman who could whisk me away to a world of comfort. Instead, he’s a control freak who thinks he can have whatever he wants, with no consequences. He created the illusion that he was taking care of everything, even me. Power is just that: Power. It’s not love or sensitivity or connection. For Alec, I was a convenient partner with whom to play out his fantasy.

  I look down and let my hair fall over my face.

  “Anna,” he calls to me.

  I try to ignore him and just want to scoot past without dealing.

  “Anna,” he says, again, getting directly in my path.

  I look up at him, gazing deep into his eyes, suddenly searching for an explanation.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, thrusting the flowers at me. It’s the most artful bouquet of white hydrangeas and lilies, my two favorites. Damn him.

  “Here, take them.”

  I extend a limp hand to accept the flowers.

  “I’ve missed you…missed us. Let me take you to dinner tonight. To Indochine. It’s another spot I want to show you, one of my favorites.”

  I just continue to stare, trying to understand. I look at his left hand and the ring is gone. It triggers something in me, and I go from bewildered to furious.

  “Alec, I’m not going anywhere with you tonight.” And I start walking into the building.

  “Deadline? Tomorrow night then?” he says, following behind me, getting a little desperate or maybe just confused. I don’t care which.

  “No, I can’t do that either.”

  “Fuck dinner then, Anna. Why aren’t you returning my calls?”

  I’m trying to keep myself from bursting into tears in the middle of the bustling lobby of this midtown building at the height of the lunchtime rush. It’s taking everything in my power to keep it together. If I look at him again, tears will flow, I might lose my strength, I might fall into his arms, I might let myself go back to him, and I know that I can not let that happen. So I keep walking, just keep moving forward.

  I’m jamming my finger on the button for the elevator—the same one he and I took late one night, up to the office after the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. The memories come flooding back and my body shudders with sadness. I swallow it down and keep hammering that button.

  “Anna, talk to me.”

  Finally, the elevator comes and the doors open. I run in and jam my finger on the “close” button inside. Just before the doors shut, I pull my head up and look into his eyes.

  He looks so gorgeous. He’s tall and commanding, with thick dark hair, perfectly tousled. I stare at his beautifully sculpted features and thick lips. His tailored dark blue suit fits his body just so. All the memories of our nights together come flooding back.

  “Maybe it has something to do with your wife,” I manage to say, as the tears start to fall. The elevator doors close, and I’m vaulted up to the comparative safety of the Celeb offices.

  I run to the bathroom, sit in the stall, and let myself sob—for everything. For Alec. For feeling betrayed. For lost love on so many fronts. For Jesse’s being such a player. For Chelsea and her schemes. Everyone in this city is out for him or herself, even if they appear not to be on the surface.

  Eyes swollen and red, I splash my face with cold water, fluff my hair, and do my best to pull myself together, praying no one else comes into the bathroom. I fish my makeup bag out of my purse, grab the concealer, dab it under my eyes, put some white eye shadow on my lids, reapply mascara, and throw on some lip gloss.

  Back at my desk, I plop in my chair and dive into my salad. The little things in life sometimes get you through. Closing my eyes as I chew, I savor the sweet-salty combination of the Asian dressing and fresh veggies as I shovel forkfuls into my mouth. I crave vegetables the way most people do chocolate. I guess you can take the girl out of the farm, but not the farm out of the girl.

  The office is quiet, with most people out to lunch. As I enjoy a few precious moments of relative calm, my mind wanders back to Chelsea. Suddenly, it hits me. I pop up from my desk and look over toward her office. Empty. I seize the moment, grabbing a stack of copy approved by Bernie, as if I’m ready to distribute it to the appropriate editors.

  Casually, I walk into Chelsea’s office, ostensibly to drop her story off; once there, I can snoop around her desk for clues. All of today’s papers and the latest issues of all the celebrity publications are strewn about. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I look on her computer screen to see what files might be open, but it’s all shut down.

  I spot her datebook halfway buried under a magazine. Casually pushing the magazine aside, I see the datebook open to this week. I glance around the office quickly. No one who matters is around—only a couple of researchers, a copy editor, and a low-level designer.

  I look down at the datebook and scan it quickly. On the space marked with today’s date, it says, “6 p.m., GG, Monkey Bar.”

  “Yes!” I mutter under my breath. I walk calmly back to my desk and immediately dial my partner in crime.

  “Jesse, it’s me.”

  He lets loose a little chuckle. “Does my ace reporter have a plan?”

  “Chelsea, Glenn. We’re on for tonight.”

  “Wha—?”

  “Let me explain.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “I snooped in Chelsea’s office and gathered some intel.”

  “I love it. Shoot—what’d you get?”

  “Her datebook was left out…and I might’ve taken the opportunity to glance at it.”

  “Nice. Just getting started and already a pro.”

  “I think she’s meeting Glenn Goodall at the Monkey Bar tonight at 6.”

  “So…what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest that we go to the Monkey Bar in disguise. Lay low. That way we can see what he looks like and then tail him, see where he goes. It’s perfect, Jesse. We have to.”

  “I like it, but we cannot get recognized.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve thought of that. We’ll hit Ricky’s on our way over. I’ll get a wig and some makeup, and you can get a mustache or something.”

  “Undercover—I love it!”

  “Be cool, Jesse, for the millionth time.”

  “I am being cool. This is just too much fun.”

  Jesse enjoyed himself at Ricky’s. The legendary New York drugstore—second home to the city’s drag queens—was the perfect place to find a quick disguise. He got Buddy Holly glasses, which made him look even cuter than usual, and a sweet polyester button down, topped off with a trucker hat. He looked like a perfect Brooklyn hipster.

  I snagged a blond Marilyn Monroe wig and did dramatic red lips and smoky black eyes. I looked like the hipster’s arty girlfriend.

  We each do one last check on our outfits in the restroom at the Monkey Bar and take a seat at the bar. Jesse orders two dirty Ketel One martinis, and we take our time surveying the room.

  It’s after six and the crowd is mostly financial guys and ad execs. As I continue to look around, I spot Chelsea huddled in a booth in the corner, sitting with a Jersey-looking meathead type with slicked-back hair.

  “Jesse, that’s him. He’s here,” I say, as if I’m talking in casual conversation.

  “Where?”

  “In the corner booth—don’t turn around and look. Whatever you do, don’t turn your head. But they are behind you, huddled in a booth.”

  “How can I look?”

  “In the mirror behind the bar. In the reflection. For God’s sake, don’t turn around.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m cool. Chill.”

  I take a deep breath.

  Jesse looks up into the mirror.

  “Yes, it’s definitely her, and that must
be him.”

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  “We sit here, drink our drinks, and stay calm.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we follow him when they get up to leave.”

  “Okay,” I say, then take a slug of my drink. “I’m going to need more liquid courage for this one.”

  “Me, too,” says Jesse, showing a hint of vulnerability for the first time. “I’m a gossip columnist. I go to parties. I don’t do this nitty-gritty stuff.”

  “You can see them in the mirror, better than I can. Keep an eye on what happens.”

  “So far, they’re just talking.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Now, he’s handing her some stuff from his briefcase—papers, printouts of some kind. A couple of discs, too.”

  “I bet it’s info on the Katy Simpson story she pitched this morning. She said she needed one more day to get confirmation.”

  “Shit, now she’s handing him an envelope.”

  I lean in closer to Jesse and say, “I feel kind of like I’m part of it now. Guilty, somehow. Is that weird?”

  “This is what’s called being hot on the trail.” Suddenly, his eyes go wide as he tries to keep calm.

  I hit him in the arm, “What? What is it?”

  “Chelsea’s fishing in her purse for something.”

  I look over, careful not to let her see that I’m watching. She pulls her calendar from her purse and hands him a slip of paper. He nods, puts the paper in his pocket, and slowly gets up.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know. We should follow him, but we have to pay for our drinks and—”

  Glenn gets up, crosses the room, and heads out of the bar, as we turn toward the bar to hide ourselves.

  “Let’s just leave some cash and go,” I lean in and whisper. Jesse fishes for some cash, but by the time we’re out on the sidewalk, Glenn has disappeared into the city.

  “We lost him,” I say.

  “So much for trailing.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Listen, all is not lost. We know what he looks like. I’ll do some more digging tomorrow.”

  Chelsea comes flying out the door, and Jesse and I turn away and walk down the block in the opposite direction just in time.

  17

  The Sweetest Thing

  “I totally don’t feel like going,” I say to Cari, scarfing an overstuffed burrito at Benny’s in the East Village. “I’m dying for a low-key night. No drama, no velvet ropes. Just a no-pretentions thing…like how the rest of the world lives.”

  As I sip my margarita, I tell Cari that I’m beaten down, betrayed by the city’s glamorous facade, hurt by the reality of what’s inside. I crave something real and honest, something I can take at face value. That night with Damien on the Whitney loading dock, that hug, felt more real than anything I’ve experienced in New York so far. I admit that I can’t get it out of my mind. It was so raw. He was perceptive in a way that seemed uncanny. I remember thinking that he knows me, understands me, better than I know myself.

  But he never called. Or he has yet to call. Maybe he lost my number. Or who knows? I just know he hasn’t done anything to make that drink we discussed actually happen.

  “Maybe this country girl isn’t cut out for the city, after all. Maybe my mom was right,” I say, as I swirl my last bite in the sour cream. “Everything feels like lies. And I don’t know who to trust or even how to figure out who to trust. Alec lies, Chelsea is hiding something, half of what we print in Celeb is unchecked ‘facts,’ which might as well be lies.”

  “You’re going. We’re going. You have to, remember? For your job, which, the last time I checked, you loved.”

  “I do love it. Or I did. Now, I don’t even know. It’s not real; nothing in it is real. It’s all plastic surgery, peroxide, and pandering.”

  “See, you’re even talking in alliterations! This is what you’ve wanted since you were a little girl, sitting in your mother’s garden, daydreaming of living the fast life in the big city when you were supposed to be weeding the carrots,” she says, putting air quotes around “fast life” and “big city.”

  All I wanted growing up was to find a way out of the isolation of country life. A surge of strength and resolve bubbles up. We all have a story. My New York story isn’t over.

  “Bottoms up, girl. We need to go,” says Cari. “You can rally. You’re made for this stuff. It’s the opening of Julien, for God’s sake.”

  The street outside the entrance is so packed with town cars and paparazzi, we ask the cabbie to drop us at the corner.

  Seeing the crowd, I feel my nerve falter. “Look at this craziness,” I say, turning to Cari, half begging. “Not up for it tonight. What if Alec is here with his next piece of unsuspecting arm candy? I don’t want to deal.”

  Cari grabs me by the arm and hauls me up to the clipboard man.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling. “Anna Starr from Celeb.”

  He scans the dog-eared printouts on his clipboard, finds my name fairly quickly, and parts the velvet ropes.

  As soon as I pass through the heavy wooden double doors, I feel as though I’ve been transported to a brasserie in the center of Paris—or at least what I’ve seen in the movies: The red leather high-back banquettes; the rich dark woods; the burnt-yellow walls; the massive, ornate mirrors; the enormous floral displays; the small, simple wooden tables and classic black-and-white-tiled floor. Not a detail was missed.

  Cari and I grab a glass of white wine from a server standing at the entrance, who is there to welcome guests with a glass of Simon Bond’s signature Sancerre. It’s wall-to-wall people inside and hotter than Times Square in August.

  I perk up, boosted by the energy. I have to give the city some credit. Where else in the world can you go from drinking margaritas in a dive bar to sipping fine Sancerre surrounded by celebrities, all in the space of a few minutes?

  “See, aren’t you glad I dragged you here?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “You love this stuff. Just admit it.”

  “I don’t know if I love it anymore,” I say. Things have changed. It may look glamorous on the surface. But what’s underneath is not so beguiling.

  “You’re one of the lucky few. Most people don’t get to experience this. I’m just fortunate I get to tag along.”

  Cari always says the right thing. I lean in and give her a quick hug. “I wouldn’t have brought anyone else,” I say, gently squeezing her slim arms.

  Suddenly the margaritas hit me, and I need to run to the ladies’ room.

  “Meet me at the bar in five?” I say to Cari.

  “You got it.”

  As I make my way back up the narrow, uneven staircase that leads from the bathrooms in the basement, I stay pinned to the right-hand side, making room for the steady stream of people coming down. I keep my head down and start to squeeze past someone.

  It’s cramped, and my breasts brush up against a pair of sculpted arms. I feel a frisson and look up. We lock eyes. An explosion of energy pulses between us. We stare at each other and the world recedes.

  “Anna. Oh my God. It’s so good to see you,” Damien says.

  “Hi…uh…,” I say, as a heat rushes up from my toes to the top of my head. I feel dizzy and hold onto the railing to steady myself as Damien reaches out to grab my arm.

  “Careful.”

  “Sorry, I just…felt dizzy for a second.”

  “I’m so glad I ran into you.”

  The crowd of people behind us waiting to pass is getting impatient.

  “I’ll come find you at the bar,” he says, with a surprising urgency and directness.

  “Okay,” I say. He does a princely wave and lets me through. I smile and blush and begin to make my way up the stairs. As I look back to grab one more glimpse of him, I catch him checking me out and can’t help but laugh out loud. He starts to laugh, too, knowing we were both caught.

  He gives me a perfectly time
d wink and turns to walk down the stairs. He’s so damn cute, I could die.

  When I get to the bar and find Cari, she’s deep in conversation with a cute guy in a suit. We make eye contact and I get the nod, so I head to the other end of the bar and leave her to flirt.

  I scan the scene for an item for next week’s issue. Bradley Cruz is huddled at a corner table with Lola Muniz. He’s holding her hand and whispering something in her ear, and I feel like I just caught a sweet moment between them. Melodie and her new music-exec husband are sitting in a booth directly behind me. Just talk to them like they’re your friends, I tell myself, remembering Aunt Sylvie’s words.

  “Hi, I’m Anna Starr from Celeb,” I say. “Melodie, we met at the cover shoot the other week.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” she says sweetly.

  “Who are you wearing? Your dress is beautiful.”

  “You know, it’s funny you should ask. I’m wearing Cavalli. After that cover came out, he called me. He said I made his clothes look the way they are supposed to, the way he envisions them. He said I’m his newest muse, and he’s designing a collection inspired by me. This is the first piece.”

  “His muse…so poetic,” I say, thinking of Damien and his need for a muse.

  Friends come up, and Melodie and her husband shift their attention. I say a quick thank you and turn around. A moment later, I feel a brush against my shoulder coming from behind.

  “Oh!” I say, and as I spin around abruptly, wine flies up out of my glass.

  “Thanks,” says Damien, teasingly, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve.

  “Sorry,” I say, giving him an apologetic smile.

  “No worries.” He takes a breath and looks into my eyes, giving me a gorgeous, full smile. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say back, beaming into his perfect hazel globes. “Sorry again about the wine.”

  “Anna,” he says, pausing, “it’s really good to see you.”